Before I Met You

45




GODFREY STOOD ON the doorstep, his suitcase at his feet, his overcoat held over his arm, his hat in his hand. Miss Chettling was looking from Godfrey to Arlette and back again, her face a picture of anguished uncertainty.

‘Miss De La Mare,’ she began tremulously, ‘this gentleman says that he is here to see you ...?’

Arlette looked at Godfrey, her love, her joy, her future, and she gulped back a cry of misery.

‘Godfrey,’ she said stiffly, ‘what are you doing here?’

‘My dear,’ he said, ‘I was worried. I had expected to see you at the station.’ The smile on his face was strained and slightly embarrassed. Arlette’s heart lurched.

‘Yes, indeed, did you not get my note?’

‘No, I did not.’ His smile faltered a fraction and he squeezed his hat nervously between his beautiful fingers.

Arlette swallowed down a sob and said, ‘Oh dear. I posted it on Friday morning. I had hoped ...’

‘Oh, now, that is a pity. Was there a change in your plans?’

‘Well, yes, there was, there was ...’ She paused and said, ‘Miss Chettling, I would like to talk to Mr Pickle in private, if that’s possible.’

Miss Chettling looked momentarily shocked and then recovered herself. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘if you’re sure.’

‘I am, thank you, Miss Chettling.’

Miss Chettling tiptoed back up the stairs and Arlette turned to Godfrey.

‘Shall I come in?’ he asked.

‘Um, well, I’m not sure that’s necessary, Godfrey. I just ...’ She wrung her hands together and stared at the ground, at the gleam of Godfrey’s patent shoes, at a cobweb embedded between the bricks in the doorway. She felt her stomach contract and expand, and forced the words from her mouth, dry and painful as a stone. ‘The thing is, Godfrey, my circumstances are somewhat changed. I, um, I no longer.’ She swallowed hard and cleared her throat. ‘I am no longer in a position to ... I think we will have to finish this.’

‘Finish this,’ he repeated.

‘Yes. You and I. I can’t. Not any more.’

‘I’m not sure I understand entirely.’ He blinked at her, still smiling.

‘Oh, Godfrey,’ she exclaimed, ‘please don’t make this harder than it needs to be! I can’t see you any more. Things have changed while you’ve been gone. Irreversibly. I’m so very sorry.’

His big eyes glistened and she saw him gulp. He passed his hat from one hand to the other and said, ‘I see. And in what way have things changed?’

‘I’ve taken up with a new man,’ she said, bile rising at the back of her throat as she released the awful words of truth.

‘Oh,’ his brow twitched. ‘And am I allowed to know who this new man might be?’

‘It is Gideon,’ she said tersely.

Godfrey turned his gaze from Arlette and up to the sky, as though the answer had been up there all along. ‘Yes,’ he said, nodding just once. ‘Yes. Of course.’

‘Why would you say that?’ she asked. ‘Why “of course”?’

Godfrey laughed bitterly. ‘Oh, my dear,’ he said. ‘Do you really need to ask?’

‘Well, yes, clearly I do, otherwise I should not be asking.’

He sighed and stared at Arlette with a mixture of fondness and irritation. Then he put his hat back upon his head, picked up his suitcase, bowed his head at Arlette and very slowly turned and walked away.

Arlette watched him for a moment. Every fibre of her being wanted to chase after him, wanted to hurl herself at him, wanted to kiss him, to hold him, to bring him inside, to her room, to her bed, to her life for ever and ever. But then she remembered: that avenue had been closed to her four weeks ago against a tree in Leticia’s garden. That avenue had been closed to her when Gideon’s sperm had entered her body and fertilised her egg, and although no doctor had yet confirmed the terrible truth, Arlette knew. Her monthly curse was two weeks’ late. Her breasts were large and tender. And there had been, for the past twenty-four hours, a peculiar taste in her mouth, a taste of metal and dirt.

And no, it was not Godfrey’s baby. She had still been bleeding when Godfrey had left for Manchester; they had not had encounters of that type since before her last curse. And even then they had been careful, had employed techniques to ensure that conception would not take place. As they always did.

It was Gideon’s baby inside her. She knew it. She felt it. She hated it.

She watched Godfrey until he was but a toy figure in the distance and then he turned the corner and was gone.


She called at Gideon’s house that afternoon, dressed as a far plainer woman than the one he had last seen in white knife pleats and a Marcel wave. The house that she had first entered as a virgin, with Lilian as her escort, the house that had charmed her with its vagueness and its clutter, now looked ominous in the dark gold October light. She felt nausea rise from her stomach to the back of her throat, not knowing how she would feel when she saw his face again, heard his voice, watched those lips turn up into his oafish smile. He opened the door to her half dressed, his hair lank behind his ears, his eyes full of sleep. He blinked at her, and then there it was, that smile, Gideon’s smile. Childlike, pure, slightly confused.

‘My God,’ he said. ‘Arlette! How wonderful! I thought you were cross with me.’

Arlette could barely think straight; her words jumbled up and rearranged themselves inside her head. She breathed in deeply and pulled them back together, and she said, ‘Gideon. I believe I am pregnant. I believe it is yours.’

Gideon said nothing at first. He merely ran a hand through his hair and stared at her.

‘But surely not,’ he said with a hoarse laugh. ‘I mean, we made love only once.’

Arlette closed her eyes and inhaled, trying to calm herself against the twin assault of his misuse of the words ‘made love’ and his blatant ignorance about matters of a reproductive nature.

‘It only takes one ...’ she said, unable to find a word to complete her sentence that would in any way be an accurate reference to what had occurred between them. ‘It only needs to happen once,’ she finished.

He rubbed at his stubbled chin and nodded at her, as though grateful in some way for the clarification. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Well ...’

‘I have an appointment tomorrow with the doctor. If I am right, if I am pregnant, then you are to marry me. Immediately.’

‘Marry you?’ he asked, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

She nodded, once.

‘Why, of course. I mean, Arlette, as you know, I adore you, I –’

‘This has absolutely nothing to do with love, Gideon. Far from it. I am pregnant, with your child –’

‘Are you sure?’ he interrupted. ‘Sure that it is mine?’

‘Yes,’ she snapped, unwilling to enter into an explanation. ‘I am sure.’

Gideon smiled and rubbed his chin, chewing over the prospect happily. ‘Well, well, well,’ he said.

‘I am pregnant. With your child. I will have to give up work. I have already given up Godfrey. You will marry me and be a generous and kind father and husband. You will care for us both and ensure that we have everything we need. In perpetuity. But, Gideon, you will never, ever lay a single finger of yours upon my body again. I will not so much as feel the touch of your breath against me. Do you hear? And if you do I will tell everyone what happened at my birthday party. Absolutely everyone. And I will leave out not a single disgraceful detail. I will also take away your child and make sure that you never see it again. Do you understand?’

Gideon stared at Arlette and nodded dumbly.

‘Goodbye, Gideon,’ she said. ‘I shall be in touch. And keep Saturday free.’

‘What for?’

‘For a wedding,’ she said. ‘Of the most inglorious variety.’





46


1995




SOMEONE HAD BEEN sick on Betty’s front step. It was bright yellow and smelled of fish. She stopped breathing and stepped over it gingerly. It must have been deposited there after the street cleaners had left – fairly recently, in other words. While Betty was awaking and showering and getting ready for work other people were stumbling around, throwing up on doorsteps.

Amy was taking the children to her best friend’s house in the country at lunchtime, so Betty had the afternoon and tomorrow morning off. She could barely wait. She’d been working for Amy since only Tuesday but with the ten-hour days and the rather eventful evenings, it felt like much longer.

‘Nice,’ said John, sauntering towards his pitch with a big cardboard box in his arms and gesturing towards the pile of vomit.

Betty blanched at the sound of his voice. It was the first time she’d seen him since the morning after she’d slept with Dom.

‘I know,’ she said, sneering. ‘Gross.’

John put the box down on his stand and turned his back to her while he untaped it and started pulling out records. Betty stood for a moment, feeling she should say something, something to bring them back on track.

‘Are you cross with me?’ she asked eventually.

John turned and glanced at her over his shoulder. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not at all. Why, should I be?’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘You just seem a bit ... offish.’

‘Well, you know, that’s me. Brightly by name, miserably by nature.’ His voice was tight and cold.

‘So we’re OK, are we?’

He shrugged. ‘Course we are. Right as rain. Have a good day now,’ he said patronisingly, before turning again and sauntering away from her.

Betty waited a beat, to see if he would turn and give her one of his smiles, the ones he saved just for her that made her feel like she’d won the lottery. But he didn’t. She sighed and headed for work.


‘Now, listen,’ said Amy, sliding her arms into a battered leather jacket and pulling her hair out from the back collar. ‘Tomorrow night. I’m having a party. Here. Like, huge big f*ck-off thing, OK? Party starts at eight, but I’ll need you here earlier, to settle the kids, say about six o’clock. Once they’re in bed you can come and join the party, but stay sober, yeah. Someone will have to be able to drive a car in an emergency. And then I’ll need you to stay overnight. OK? And do the kids on Sunday morning. Maybe even into lunchtime.’ She pulled up her sleeve and looked at her watch. ‘So, I’m off to the salon. I’ll be back at twelve. Dom’s popping over. He says ten, but I don’t know, who knows, maybe not at all.’

‘Oh,’ said Betty, her heart starting to race, ‘any particular reason?’

‘He says he wants to see the kids. But if you could somehow get him outta here before I get back, I would love you for ever. I’ve got crazy heaps of shit to do and I am not in the mood for seeing his pitiful face. I told him just an hour, so you don’t need to feel bad about kicking him out. But don’t say anything to the kids, OK? Don’t wanna get their hopes up and then have them dashed because Daddy Dearest is comatose in some skanky blond’s bed. Right, kids!’ she yelled over her shoulder. ‘Mommy’s going out for a coupla hours. Betty’s here. Be good. Love you!’ She didn’t wait for the children to acknowledge her parting words, just slung a bag over her shoulder, grabbed a bunch of keys and hurtled out of the house.

Betty took a deep breath and headed into the kitchen. Donny was eating a bowl of Cheerios and Mina, the maid (who Amy always referred to as though she were a kindly houseguest, just there for the fun of it, rather than a paid employee), was spooning mashed banana into the baby’s mouth. Acacia, the toddler, was wandering around with an unbuttoned babygro on and a milk bottle hanging from between her teeth. The maid smiled gratefully at Betty when she saw her walk in and passed her the bowl of mashed banana, before going to the kitchen sink to wash her hands.

‘Morning, guys!’ said Betty.

‘Morning,’ grumbled Donny, who was not, Betty was coming to learn, a morning person.

‘Morning, Acacia!’ She smiled at the toddler, who beamed at her, and in doing so lost her grip on the milk bottle, which fell to the floor, squirting milk in pretty much a full circle across the floor.

‘Oh-oh,’ sang Betty, pulling off sheets of kitchen roll and mopping it up. ‘Oh-oh.’

‘Silly Cashie,’ said Donny, smiling.

‘No,’ said Betty. ‘Cashie’s not silly. Cashie’s just smiling. Aren’t you, my lovely? Just smiling at Betty.’ Acacia smiled again. And then weed on the floor.

‘Oh!’ said Betty. ‘No nappy. Mummy left you without a nappy!’ She beamed and grabbed some more kitchen roll. ‘Oh, look at that, look at all that wee-wee.’ Acacia wrinkled her nose at Betty and smiled again.

‘Naughty Cashie,’ said Donny, banging his spoon against the kitchen table in delight. ‘Naughty, naughty Cashie.’

Astrid, seeing what her big brother was doing, grabbed her plastic spoon and began copying him, banging her spoon against her bowl of mashed banana, bang bang bang, until the bowl dropped off the table and onto the kitchen floor, turning one hundred and eighty degrees in its descent, depositing gooey banana all over the floor. Seeing her breakfast disappear out of sight, the baby began to cry. Betty took a deep breath. What sort of idiots had three children, she thought to herself. What sort of ridiculous fools would fill up their beautiful house with people intent on spilling stuff and pissing everywhere?

She breathed in once, twice, three times and then she rose up onto her feet, her hands full of balled up, piss-soaked kitchen roll and smiled her Happy Betty smile. ‘Oh,’ she said, brightly, ‘never mind. Never mind.’ And then she turned to the sink to rinse out a cloth and jumped an inch in the air when she saw Dom standing in the doorway.

‘Morning all,’ he said, pulling his hands from his pockets and sauntering in.

‘Daddy!’ cried Donny, leaping to his feet and sending a spoonful of Cheerios flying across the table as he did so.

Dom grabbed Donny and threw him in the air, then held him aloft on his shoulder like a football trophy. Donny smiled triumphantly and squeezed Dom’s head between his hands.

Betty smiled and said, ‘You’re early.’

‘I’ve been waiting round the corner,’ he said, ‘waiting for the Wicked W –’ he stopped himself, ‘waiting for Mummy to go.’

He looked dishevelled, and even from halfway across the room, Betty could smell stale alcohol emanating from him. ‘Have you slept?’ she asked.

He smiled sheepishly and shook his head. ‘Nah,’ he said, ‘we, er ... well, we got the sleeper last night, turned into a bit of a party, not much sleeping, let’s put it that way ...’

‘Ah.’ Betty nodded sagely. ‘So, how long have you been waiting round the corner?’

‘About an hour,’ he shrugged, ‘maybe longer. My mate owns the pub round the corner. He let me hang out there.’

She nodded again.

He looked at her wide-eyed with innocence. ‘He’s been mainlining me strong coffee.’

She gave him a look that said she didn’t care, she wasn’t his wife, she wasn’t his mother, it was up to him how he lived his life.

In response he threw her a puppy-dog look and said, ‘Any eggs in the fridge?’

‘No idea,’ she said, ‘I’ve been here only two minutes and I’ve spent the full extent of that two minutes clearing stuff up off the floor. Why don’t you have a look?’

He lowered Donny to the floor and shuffled towards the fridge. Betty dropped to her knees and mopped up the mashed banana, then the milky Cheerios.

‘So,’ she said, standing up, ‘how did it go? The secret location?’

‘Waste of time,’ he said. ‘Total waste of time. Gav didn’t show. Tommy spent the whole time on the phone to his missus. And me and Bryce just played poker and drank Schnapps.’

‘Oh,’ said Betty.

‘Yeah.’ Dom pulled a sliced loaf out of the bread bin and took out two pieces of bread. ‘Exactly.’

He dropped the bread into a big shiny toaster like the ones they have in Italian cafés and started noisily pulling drawers open and shut. ‘Frying pan?’ he asked.

‘No idea,’ Betty said. ‘Didn’t you used to live here?’

‘Live here? Yes. Cook here? Not very often. A-ha,’ he said victoriously, ‘found it!’ He pulled open the door of the big pink Smeg fridge and stared into it. ‘So,’ he said, ‘lovely Betty. How’ve you been?’

‘Fine,’ she said.

He reached into the fridge and brought out a box of eggs. He peered at it and said; ‘Use by the fifteenth of June. What date is it today?’

‘It’s the sixteenth,’ she said.

‘What do you reckon? Can I eat these?’

‘Of course you can,’ she said, wiping mush from the baby’s mouth.

‘Coolio,’ he said, juggling two eggs in the air and just about catching them again. ‘Don, wanna crack an egg?’

‘Yeah!’ said Donny, immediately grabbing his step and pulling it over to the hob. ‘Can I crack both of them?’

‘Course you can, mate, course you can. Betty? Want an egg?’

‘No thank you’ she said primly.

‘Suit yourself.’

Betty watched Dom bouncing around the kitchen, hyper as a child, spilling things, treating Donovan as if he were a toy, unable to work out how to light the gas, burning the toast, leaving crumbs in the butter, splattering the hob with hot oil, and she felt suddenly intensely annoyed. It was like every time she saw him he was acting out a different role. She thought of the guy she’d spent the night with three days ago, the calm, thoughtful guy who’d cooked her a roast chicken as if it was the simplest thing in the world, who’d seduced her so smoothly and convincingly. Then she thought of the drunk idiot in the Groucho, the one who’d squeezed her bum and called her ‘the nanny’ to impress his stupid friend. She thought of the time she’d seen him screaming down the phone at someone, hard and aggressive, through his back window, and then she thought again of the blurred photos on the front page of the Mirror a few weeks ago. It occurred to her, suddenly and overpoweringly, that she had absolutely no idea who he was. Right now he was acting out the role of the crazy dad, the fun guy who showed up unexpectedly and created havoc. And she didn’t like it, not one bit.

Finally he sat down at the kitchen table with a plate of toast and eggs. He grabbed a bottle of ketchup and showily, ostentatiously, covered the whole lot in red sauce, like he was trying to prove he was a real regular guy, the salt of the earth. ‘There,’ he said, rubbing his hands together and smiling, ‘look at that. Lovely stuff.’

Betty pulled Astrid out of her baby seat and put her on her hip.

‘So,’ said Dom, ‘what are we going to do today?’

The question was directed at everyone in the room.

‘Football! Football!’ shouted Donovan.

‘Excellent idea.’

‘Erm, listen, Dom,’ Betty began. ‘Amy said she’ll be back at twelve and that she didn’t really ... that it would be good if ...’

‘Yeah. I get it. I’ll be gone by then. Don’t you worry.’

‘Actually,’ she continued, ‘maybe it would be better to keep the kids here. You know? Keep them at home. It’s only a couple of hours.’ She fiddled with the hem of Astrid’s dress while she spoke.

Dom stared at her blankly for a moment and then he said, ‘What? You think I’m going to steal him?’

Betty grimaced. ‘No, of course not. Just you might get carried away, you know, forget the time. And Amy wants to get the kids straight in the car when she gets back. I think she’ll be really cross if Donny’s not here.’

Dom laughed a false, hollow laugh and said, ‘I am capable of telling the time, Betty. I’m not a complete moron.’

‘I never said you were.’

‘Well, yeah, but you implied it.’

‘No, it’s just, you know, you haven’t slept, you’ve been drinking ...’

‘Oh, for f*ck’s sake.’ Dom slammed his hands down on the table and Betty instinctively put an admonishing finger to her lips. Dom raised his eyebrows at her and then folded his arms across his chest. ‘What is this?’ he barked. ‘I’ve got two effing wives now. Jesus.’

Betty glanced at the children to make sure they weren’t too perturbed by this exchange and the ripe language but they seemed unfazed, and it occurred to Betty, sadly, that they were probably used to it.

‘It’s not that,’ she said in as mild a voice as she could manage. ‘It’s Amy. I work for Amy. I have to follow her rules.’

‘You do not work for Amy,’ said Dom, darkly, ‘you work for me. Who do you think pays your wages?’

‘Amy...?’

He rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, really, you think so? And tell me, when was the last time Mighty sold a million records, eh? When was the last time Mighty sold out a stadium tour? You think Amy Metz paid for this place?’ He gestured around the room. ‘You think Amy Metz is paying to get her hair dyed, as we speak? You think she pays for anything?’

Betty shrugged and stroked the baby’s hair. ‘I never really thought about it.’

‘Well, there you go.’ He pushed his half-eaten plate of food away childishly. ‘Think about it for just one moment, and you’ll see that I pay your wages and therefore you work for me.’

Betty gulped. She could feel tears rising up through her body and she swallowed them down painfully.

Dom sighed dramatically and put a hand on Donny’s head. ‘But,’ he began, ‘if Mummy says you can’t go out and play football with Daddy then I suppose we’ll just have to do what Mummy says.’

‘No!’ screamed Donovan. ‘No! I want to play football!’

‘Sorry, mate,’ said Dom, casting a meaningful glance in Betty’s direction. ‘The women don’t want us to, and us poor blokes have to do what the women say. Otherwise we get our willies chopped off.’

Donovan stopped crying for a minute and stared at Dom, aghast. ‘Really?’

‘No,’ said Betty, ‘of course not. But Mummy wants you in the car when she gets back and so football will have to wait for another day.’

‘No!’ he screamed again. ‘No! Now! Football now!’

Dom kissed Donny on his head and gave Betty another dark look. ‘I think I’d better leave,’ he said.

Betty grimaced at him. ‘Why?’ she said. ‘Couldn’t you just play football in the garden?’ She looked through the sliding glass doors to the sixty-foot lawn with half-size football goal beyond.

‘No!’ shouted Donny. ‘I want to play in the park. With Daddy.’

Dom simply raised an eyebrow at Betty and got to his feet. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he said to Donny. ‘Fun’s over. I’ll see you soon, yeah.’ He kissed him on the mouth. ‘And you, girls, love you all.’ He kissed Acacia and then he leaned in towards Betty to kiss the baby, and she reeled at the smell of his vaporous breath, the stale cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes and a blob of egg yolk in the corner of his mouth drying to a crust.

‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

‘Oh, a few things to sort out, you know. Gotta find Gav. Gotta get a kip. I’ll see you soon, yeah?’

She nodded mutely, while Donovan sobbed quietly behind her.

She watched Dom unpeel Donovan from his leg at the front door and squeeze it closed behind him, almost trapping his son’s fingers as he did so.

Betty turned back to the kitchen. The room was in chaos: cracked eggshells littered the work surface, the oily frying pan was still on the hob, there were crumbs of burned toast everywhere, and Acacia, still without a nappy, had at some point, without anyone even noticing, done a poo on the floor.

Donovan ran back into the kitchen, his face puce with fury, tears coursing down his cheeks and screamed at Betty, ‘Why didn’t you let Daddy take me to the park? I hate you!’ before stamping up the stairs and slamming his bedroom door behind him.

Betty brought the baby close to her face and kissed her scalp tenderly. ‘Naughty Daddy,’ she whispered softly in her ear. ‘What a naughty, naughty Daddy.’

And then she put the baby down, pushed up her sleeves, and set about hosing down the kitchen.





47


1920




FOR HER WEDDING Arlette wore black. Minu was her maid of honour and Gideon’s brother Toby was the best man. They married at Chelsea Town Hall during a torrential downpour that marked the end of the mellow early days of autumn, and arrived for a sombre lunch at a Chelsea café like a band of drowned rats. Arlette and Gideon were toasted with tumblers of warm whisky and they ate gristly lamp chops with cold mashed potatoes, which Arlette promptly threw up in the gutter when they left the restaurant an hour later.

Gideon offered to carry Arlette over the threshold of his cottage but she told him not to be a fool and stamped into the house crossly, drank another tumbler of Scotch and went straight to bed.

When she awoke the following morning, she experienced, as she had every morning since the awful night of her twenty-second birthday, a brief moment of forgetfulness, of feeling how she used to feel, of being the Arlette who had a stellar career in ladies’ fashion, who lived in cosy Bloomsbury lodgings with her best friend, who loved a man called Godfrey Pickle and would one day have his babies.

And then, as her eyes slowly opened, so too would her memory. And then her stomach would convulse and a sob would rise up through her, and she’d have to clutch herself to stop herself screaming out loud at the horror of it all.

Her doctor had offered her the services of a ‘good woman’ in Russell Square, but Arlette had shaken her head forcefully.

‘No,’ she said, ‘no. I could not do that. It is a baby. It needs me.’

He had nodded once and said, ‘And I feel sure you will provide well for it. You seem to be a fine and very mature young woman.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed primly. ‘I am.’

She could hear Gideon, now, rattling around in the kitchen. She stared at the wall, blindly, brushing away a single tear from her nose. A moment later there was a soft knock at the door.

‘Come,’ she said.

Gideon stood in the doorway, dressed and clean, holding a tray.

‘I have brought you ginger tea,’ he said. ‘I have been told it is very soothing for morning sickness. And some unbuttered toast. Will you be going to work today?’

Arlette nodded and sat up in her bed. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I shall work until I feel I am no longer able to do so.’

‘Good,’ he said, laying the tray on her bed-stand. ‘And how did you sleep?’

‘I slept well, thank you,’ she replied.

‘That’s good,’ he said, standing slightly awkwardly above her bed with his hands in his jacket pockets.

They were silent for a moment, until Gideon cleared his throat and said, ‘Well, I shall leave you to get ready. I have lit a fire downstairs so there is plenty of hot water. If you need me for anything, I shall be upstairs in my studio.’

‘Thank you, I’m sure I shall be fine.’

Gideon smiled tightly and turned to leave. But halfway to the door he stopped and turned back. ‘Your name,’ he began nervously, ‘will you be Mrs Worsley?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I will be Mrs De La Mare. I should not wish to replace my father’s surname with any man’s name, least of all yours.’

Gideon looked injured, but then rallied and said, ‘But the baby ...?’

‘The baby shall have your name.’

He smiled then and left the room, closing the door quietly behind himself.